Tabula Rasa
by Passionworks
Summary: Creative Writing short story.  Euphoria is happiness in the form of forgetting.  It feeds on the veins and wipes memories away.  Rated for suggestive content.


**Author's Note: Well, last night, I found myself in the mood to reminisce on my days as a high school senior, and the first thing I pulled out was my Creative Writing Portfolio, containing every poem, journal, and story I ever wrote in the class. I flipped to the back end of the folder, which was where I stored the most recent selections. The one that caught my eye was my short story with the big 100 percent written all over it by my teacher –and it surprised me to realize that I had forgotten to publish it right here on FFN. I mean, it is fanfiction, for Pete's sake!**

**I did promise myself, and a few other members of FFN that I would publish this (TrueThinker, I told you about it, and probably gave you a tiny insert of it, and Dixie, I am quite sure I gave you a little insight into it too) and I just never did. So, here it is, my Creative Writing short story.**

**Enjoy…**

**Here's a text guide, since this story contains varying texts (three separate storylines, in essence):**

**Regular text: Normal storyline (basic, uninhibited present).**

**Regular text with italics: Storyline with hallucinogenic properties present. Azula's image of Ursa is seen while she is hallucinating, which is a common symptom of paranoid schizophrenia. All of Ursa's quotes are italicized for this very reason.**

**Bold text with italics: Anything taken from Azula's perspective that she writes down.**

**Music Credits: 'Page' is by Vixen, from the 1998 album, **_**Tangerine.**_

Tabula Rasa

By: Passionworks

"_I live on a page_

_That I can't read._

_I live in a cage_

_Of confusion._

_I live on a page_

_That can't be turned._

_I live in a rage,_

_Everlasting."_

"Your niece's cell is just down this hallway, General Iroh. You couldn't miss it. She's always yelling some nonsense or another."

I'm fumbling a shaking hand through my matted, raven-black tresses when I see my aged uncle, Iroh coming toward my cell. Iroh is a stout man of wide girth, with an abdomen rotund enough to house a child if nature could ever bless him with womb. His cheery face –smile wide and cheeks glistening from a rosy blush –irks me, mocks me. I never much prefer the retired general's good company –he's dreadfully annoying, to be brutally honest. And sloppy too, tasteless, dull. A drag to listen to as well, especially when the subject matter involves tea and enlightenment.

His feet shuffle along the gray, dusty floor as he walks like a zombie –he's carrying something heavy. Such a sight almost brings delightfulness to my curved and depressive lips; it amazes me to think that even the lowly guards that survey the prison will not even bend over backwards for one of history's greatest human monuments. His loss, I suppose, for abandoning the Fire Nation for the simple life of tea-brewing in the Earth Kingdom capital of Ba Sing Se.

A metallic click in the rusty lock echoes the announcement of Iroh's humble presence. One guard holds a hand out for him to enter my cell. I hear Iroh whisper something to him. A gratifying comment, perhaps, one too hopelessly pathetic for me to even consider mulling over. So, before I can cock my head and listen in, I immediately recoil and rest my emaciated frame against the chipped crimson wall.

"Hello, my niece," Iroh says once the guard departs and heads for the border of the prison door. "It has been a long time."

I reciprocate with an ugly glance at his hardened visage. My, has he aged since I saw him last. Jagged wrinkles cripple his face like lumps of fat spilling from animals overfed. However, that clownish expression seems all the more uprooted. His flesh is vibrant; he is still ripe with vitality, despite being a good fifty pounds heftier –and five years older.

I shatter my stony stare, my honey-colored eyes now tracing the indentations in the flooring below my bare, callused feet. I tap my toes; I can swear to Agni that I feel Iroh's eyes on me, studying my predicament before him. He seems amused. From my peripheral vision, I catch the corner of his lips as they reveal his white molars.

"All right, Uncle," I answer after the silence totally eats my patience away, "what is it that you want? What is it that made you travel so many miles from Ba Sing Se to visit me?"

"You want incentive, Azula." This is not a question; I can tell by his stoic tone –very unlike him.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

He sits down squarely, folding his legs in Indian-style. "Can't a fair uncle come to visit his niece? However, child, if you must know, I am just in town for the week. The fifth anniversary of your father's defeat is just days away. Your brother, Zuko requested that I return to the Fire Nation for the festivities."

My brother, the Firelord, the leader of a nation meant to fall into my capable hands… I never quite understood why the Fire Nation allowed for such a disgrace to sit upon its golden throne.

"Yes, yes. I am aware, actually. The warden never fails to inform me of the upcoming date. And you know Zuko is only in it for the publicity. You act if he is some mighty power, Uncle, but you fail to realize that his advisors run the show. Even the Avatar is better-equipped than he is for leadership."

"What makes you say that? Are you jealous of Zuko?"

"I am not." I feel hurt by this blatant accusation. "Never mind this. Can't you just go about your business and leave? Prison recess is in an hour."

"Oh, I won't hold you up too long, Azula."

"Is that so? Then tell me what it is that you are holding there." I point a razor-sharp index finger in the direction of his lap, where some sort of book sits. It's not exactly a large book, but it is thick in width and probably filled with pages he expects me to read like I'm a schoolgirl.

"This?" he asks, giving me a questionable look. "Well, this is something I thought you'd might like."

"A gift?" Suddenly, I am intrigued; it has been quite some time since I received something of such caliber from my uncle. He was never that great of a gift-giver anyway. However, it isn't as if books give me amusement, it is just that I am pleased that this is the first time the old general didn't buy me some native doll from the villages he had visited during his tour of duty.

"Yes, if that's what you'd like to call it." Iroh admits, tugging the thing off his massive lap and offering it to me; he holds it out from his frame with both hands. "It's a book."

"I can see that."

The retired general shakes his head in disappointment. "Don't be so hasty, Azula. There is more to it than that."

"Nothing is straightforward with you, Uncle."

I lift the cover as he points to the page underneath it. The parchment is without a single crease. The color is rich, somewhat meat-like, but what strikes me most is that there are no words for me to read.

The book is empty.

I continue flipping the pages as I caress the delicate ink feather that hangs from the binding. A growl seeps from my throat. "Do you honestly expect me to write in this book? Of what use would that serve to me in here, of all places?"

"Call it a diary, if you will."

"A diary? What a thought! I'd call it a ploy to get me to reveal my feelings. It's been five years since I set foot onto the Boiling Rock. The specialists' prodding has produced nothing. What makes you believe that yours will be sufficient?"

"Well, um, I use the term loosely. Diary would be a clumsy word. I apologize." Iroh's trying to avoid interrogation –how clever of him to _conceal_ it. His I'm-so-sorry look is pathetic. False. "Think of this as an assignment of sorts."

"Iroh." I flick my wrist in absolute disgust. "I am not a schoolchild. I graduated top of my class at the Royal Fire Academy, you know that."

"I do, but, for once, just listen to me. Take me seriously."

I wanted to burst out and tell him how difficult it really is to sincerely consider him. But I am silent. Diverting from my uncle, my eyes capture a glimpse of a female spiderfly trailing the corner adjacent from me. Her legs are like stilts, balancing her hefty ball-like abdomen in an impossible manner. She toddles magnificently, now grasping the wall and defying gravity. Her web is nearby; I notice it glistening just above me. Something sends the paper-thin thread into motion –a tiny bluish insect flails desperately from the middle. Sympathy pangs me, as I understand this feeling of entrapment myself: the knowing that the spirit is due to die at the hands of another. Yes, I know it all too well.

"I see you are watching the spiderfly. She is not much different from you." His golden irises twinkle. "Do you know why that is?"

The connection he is wordlessly implying is lost to me as I watch with deep admiration as the spiderfly engulfs her victim with her sewing digits. Her craftsmanship is impeccable; she is a champion weaver. She embroiders her craft without needle to pull her sting. In its finished form, she feeds upon it, doing her worst.

"Do you have an answer? Or do you not know yourself as well as you think you do?"

"I am very well aware of my sense of self," I snap, immediately relieved from eying the predator dangling overhead. Crossing my arms under my chest, I pucker my lip and offer a disgusted expression.

"Really? I find that hard to believe, for instability stems from your self-conscience."

"You're taking the doctors' side, aren't you? Just because they have labeled me schizophrenic doesn't mean that I have lost touch with my own self."

"Then why will you not answer the question?"

"You probably already have an answer."

"I do, actually."

The retired general runs his hand along his chiseled jaw. "The spiderfly is programmed to kill for her own survival. Her instincts command her practices, and she follows them devoutly –she has no choice. Have you ever thought that, somewhere deep inside our earth's bounty of creatures, there is a lone spirit that wants to free itself from its prescribed mold?"

"And how does this pertain to me in any way?"

Iroh ignores me. "The spiderfly is a creature of feeling without expression. She regrets, but nature demands her to hold it back and thrive on what she is blessed with. She forgets and moves on."

"You say I lack empathy?" He's right, though, but why give the man the glory?

"You tell me."

"I do not concern myself with the wellbeing of others. Is that what you wanted me to say, Uncle?" I uncross my arms and tap the concrete with my fingertips. Iroh listens intently, nodding his head and considering the answer I have just given him.

"Perhaps that is the definition of coldness. Now, would you ever, in the deepest recesses of your heart, want to break free from it? Or, would you rather remain in the form you were born with?"

Birthrights. That's what he's angling at now. "Are you implying that, in order to become a creature of feeling, I should dissociate myself from the family I rose from? Ignore and destroy the pleasures of the rank that preserves who I am in this society?"

"You are not opening up. You fear detachment from your external self. You forget your personal self, the side hidden and usually collapsed by social conceit." He squints severely at me, his pupils burning into mine like hot cinders that hit flesh upon ejection.

"I'm arrogant, am I?" I'm not exactly disturbed by what Iroh has just told me. My hands find their way back to my disheveled hair, where I make an anxious attempt to untangle the knots. "I suppose I am silly for not seeing the connection to the spiderfly. You're losing the point of this conversation, Iroh, and, if not that, you're losing at least my attention."

General Iroh points his thick index digit back up at the feminine spiderfly, who is perfectly immobile against her web.

"The social structure of the spiderfly is built-in, compact. Her duty to the environment is to rid the population of insects that could be potentially dangerous to humans. The spiderfly is not aware that she inadvertently assists the human race; she is only aware of her own interests. She kills, but cannot actively regret. She assists, but cannot actively appreciate. All animals, big or small, have emotions inside of them, but some inhibit their potential, so nature holds back elicitation to maintain the species. Look at yourself. You have channeled empathetic emotions elsewhere. You feel that, in order for you to encourage your own growth, you mustn't concern yourself with the survival of others. You dismissed your greatest allies on the day of your fall, so you should see the error in your judgment."

"Zuko is the one at fault. My downfall had nothing to do with the error of my ways –"

"Oh, but it did. Think about it," he answers all too quickly. I am alarmed by his outburst; I flinch in response to the harshness of his tone.

"You must learn to be empathetic to truly understand why Zuko had your rank slain," he continues, clearing his throat. "Think beyond yourself. What is your greatest regret in life? What is it that you are afraid to admit? Perhaps honest confession will help you grow."

He places his hands on the cover of the book he handed to me earlier. In the heat of confrontation, I almost overlooked the thing.

"Let not the tongue be your voice. May the written word speak for you, for it echoes louder than all human tones. The physical voice fades, but ink remains permanent. I want you to open up to your feelings. You don't have to ever share them with anyone; admittance in writing is one without embarrassment. Remember that."

I nod methodically as he presses his palm to the wall and rises from the floor. "I should be departing. Take care, my niece."

"Yes, yes. Don't make a production out of your leave," I reply without mirth. My nails disgust me; I dig frantically to remove the dirt caked on them. Uncle Iroh turns without a word, and meets the exit, where he abruptly swivels back and faces me.

"Keep in mind, Azula, that the purpose is to expose your regrets. Who else has died by the hands of your negligence and lack of empathy?"

…

"_This cake is_

_Half-eaten,_

_But I don't remember a bite._

_My soul is_

_Badly beaten,_

_But I don't remember a fight._

_I'm crawling with an open wound,_

_Wiping the mud from my eyes._

_Endless guilt is kicking me._

_I'll never be free_

'_Cause…"_

My mother, Ursa's bastardized countenance is a white sheet of shattered glass, cracked into a million puzzling pieces. A shape without form.

"_You have been forgotten –five years forgotten. Haven't you realized that yet, Azula?"_

"You are not real."

"_Oh, but I am. I am the only piece of reality that you have left."_

"Liar. You are just a figment of my imagination. Never have you existed!"

Shackles bind my hands to the wall above me. Galvanized by nervous shock, I twist and shout furiously, rabid as a demonic beast. My wrists are bloodied with scars and open wounds freshly inflicted. The crimson fluid drains down my arms like cursed pools poisonous to human consumption. It stains my hair from black to russet, leaving my tresses sticky, hardened, and untouchable. Tears stream down my bloodshot eyes as Ursa's prickled hand finds its way to my gaunt shoulder, where it carves a jagged hole into the sleeve of my tattered shirt.

"_You are alone, my daughter."_

"And you are dead, Mother." I am disappointed by the crack in my once sure-fired tone.

_"Who is to say that I am dead? I am alive as you imagine me to be. And I am as real as you imagine me to be."_

"Then imagination and reality must be faltered things," I say at once, seething with teeth bared as one of my numerous wounds pulsates against the rusted metal that strangles my wrists.

_"Why might that be, Azula?" _She caresses my chin and wipes the tears scintillating on my eyelashes, leaving scratch marks.

"Get your hands off of me! You know why," I snap, brutishly protruding my bosom, toughening my appearance. "I am fully aware that you are not here. You have never been there –never been there for me when I needed you most."

_"You are wrong, child. I am here now. I never abandoned you. I was always there, even if you couldn't see me then."_

Ursa wraps her ghostly form around me. Her touch is like icicles pounding and inflicting excruciating pain against my flesh. She stares fixedly at the blood of my open sores. They leave peach-reddened tracks on my arms. She is suddenly ensnared by the markings. They remind me of brindle stripes on a canid's coat. I wonder what she thinks of them.

_"You're hurt. Just calm down." _Her voice is cracking like mine; she is holding back her own tears. _"I hate to see you suffer like this, enduring this torture night and day."_

"Blame your ever-perfect son and the waterbender bitch."

_"No. I can't blame your brother, nor can I blame his ally."_

"That's because you don't want to," I yelp as I create another wound on my wrist. The flesh encircling the lesion flaps, screaming and hurling blood madly. A pitchy breath seeps its way out of me. "You want to say I put this on myself, and I re–"

_"Why would I say such a thing to you?"_

"You think I'm a monster, Mother. A monster without feelings."

_"Then what can you feel, Azula? Tell me. You can tell me anything…"_

Lament, Mother, I want to screech, but my call is deafened as liquefied euphoria embeds itself in my veins and sends me spiraling into a drug-induced rapture.

…

"_I live on a page_

_That I can't read._

_I live in a cage_

_Of confusion._

_I live on a page_

_That can't be turned._

_I live in a rage,_

_Everlasting."_

The fine feather brush finds its way into my shaking right hand. I dip it into some ink my uncle left for me without my noticing. I leave the tip to swim in the coal-colored liquid, watching as its shape becomes fractured when the dim light of my cell hits it at a certain angle. Finally, I pull it out as if saving it from drowning. I stare at it briefly, wondering why I am willing myself into Iroh's silly ploy. I have no choice, I suppose.

The tip meets the parchment paper, jittering with panic and nerves on a fiery edge. I halt before I can do any damage, contemplating the words that grope for an outlet from my head.

…

_**Those blessed with flames are born under the sun, the sages used to say; those blessed with prodigal flames are born under the sun of the summer solstice.**_

_**And the great summer's heat is at its peak. It reddens the sky with its roaring, ravenous rage. The earth seems to sway as steam rises at every tip. Everything melts, swelters.**_

_**Burns.**_

_**The royal female's brow is coated with sweat. Her throat is dry. Not from dehydration, but from the intensity of her own screams.**_

_**"Just one more push should do it, Princess," a heavyset nurse informs the young Ursa, my mother, "then, the baby will be out. Come on. You can do it, dear."**_

_**Princess Ursa grits her teeth, and sends her last bit of strength to her final act of whelping.**_

_**Those blessed with flames are born under the sun, the sages used to say; those blessed with prodigal flames are born under the sun of the summer solstice.**_

_**And I enter the world shrieking at the bell's toll of noon –at the very height of daylight. The nurses scramble and swaddle me, whispering little secrets that I am far too inexperienced to understand.**_

_**My exhausted mother smiles as she waits to see the product of her toils, her husband –the Fire Prince, my father –pats her trembling arm.**_

_**"Congratulations," the nurse says, returning to my parents. She is holding me close to her chest, blocking my squinting eyes. "This is your daughter."**_

_**My mother's pale skin is warm to the touch as she takes me into her arms. Her voice is at peace, tickling my tiny little ear.**_

_**"Azula," my father, Prince Ozai, unexpectedly states from above me. "I want to name her Azula –to honor my father."**_

_**Ursa replies with a muffled sigh. Ozai is lying to her –he always lies; lying isn't anything new. And she never lifts her suspicions. Makes them known.**_

_**To honor himself is what he should say, she thinks to herself…**_

_**The first act of my existence is an invention of untruth. Even if the events did not carry out in this manner…**_

…_**The lie remains the same.**_

…

"_I'm slowly suffocating_

_Under a blanket of questions._

_Who am I?_

_Do I know me?_

_Am I a box of suggestions?"_

Ursa's face is a bit more faded, like a disintegrated photograph, almost. Her spiked features are smoother, filed down to a certain degree –despite the dullness, she appears all the more human. All the more real in my eyes.

_"Is this who you think you are? Nothing but a breathing lie?"_

"The lie isn't mine!" My shackles rattle forcefully. I find that my ankles are bound as well. Freshly bound –my wounds are nothing more than indentations in my flesh. Blood rises but settles without a passageway for its flow. The sores on my wrists are scars of varying shades of scarlet and brown. Some are newly picked at, or rubbed open by the restraints grazing them.

_"My daughter, lies are not bodily objects obtained and kept."_

"Oh, really? The more I think about it, I realize how much of a _living lie_ you are to me. And are –or, _were_ –you not a physical being?"

_"Azula, silence yourself," _Ursa mouths in my direction, but does not speak.

"Why should I, Mother," I growl back at her, "just why should I? I have surrendered my voice for all my life; I feel I have earned the right to take it back!"

_"I have never held you back."_

"Liar." I spit in her direction, hoping with all the will within me that it hits her hard.

_"Who is really the liar here, Azula?"_

"You! Or –or, I...!" I am beginning to submit, bend.

Break… Slur…

_"Sin plagues everyone, my child –even the most outwardly pure of us face its tempting call. There are two sides of us. The sinner in you shines –I suggest you let that side of you hide…_

Her voice begins to grow faint. I can barely hear her now.

"_Just… who are you, really?"_

Strange is that euphoric drug. Its bout of ecstasy is short lived. Drowsiness plagues me like a cruel hangover. I stumble on my feet, diving headfirst into the void of reality.

…

_**It starts off simple. His gestures are nothing more sinister than a friendly child's games. He is gentle when he first lays a hand against my thigh; he is sweet when he plants his first kiss to my pink, youthful lips.**_

"_**Prodigies are faultless molds," he whispers, licking at my ear with his serpentine tongue. "Perfect pictures. There are no fissures, no fractures."**_

_**His hand rests at the hem of my dress-skirt. He is waiting for me to reply, waiting for me to bathe in the honesty of his comment.**_

"_**Don't be ashamed, Azula. I tell you no lies."**_

"_**Isn't this wrong, Daddy?"**_

"_**This? Of course not, dear."**_

"_**What of Mother…?"**_

"_**Yes, what of your mother?" Ozai crosses his arms, grinning.**_

"_**Well, um, what if she finds out?"**_

"_**About this? I'm sure she's already aware. She accepts this practice –from what I hear, anyway. But it matters little what she thinks, Azula. It isn't as if she can do anything about it."**_

_**He lifts his right arm, laying it upon my waist –dangerously low upon my waist. He envelops me with his frame, and I am blackened by his massive shadow. His words eat at my flesh –eat at me with a corrupt maw.**_

_**Chew. Swallow. Spit.**_

…

_**The bruises have faded to yellow welts –my body is like a splotched canvas, riddled with irreversible errors. Every hit, every smack, bite, burn, curse is an indentation with erroneous intent.**_

_**I feel like nothing more than a meal regurgitated, only to be fed upon again. Used and reused.**_

_**Where is my savior? My rapture?**_

_**For over eight years, I have asked –prayed, damn it –for rescue. So valiantly I have pleaded, my voice has gone dry –scratched like an overplayed recording –the broken record of which I am.**_

_**"Do you want to know why your mother left, Azula?" my father asks me one morning.**_

_**Wiping the grogginess from my eyes, I answer: "She abandoned me."**_

_**"Ha! Is that it? She just off and abandoned you? She was jealous of you! Jealous and envious of the attention you receive."**_

_**I am not amused. "Isn't that a petty thing?"**_

_**"Are you implying a possibility of deceit in what I have just told you?" I see his expression harden –his is stone, unbreakable and firm. "When have I ever lied to you?"**_

_**Your version of love is a lie, a dirty, filthy lie. My mind reads such a statement, but my lips are sealed.**_

_**"Your mother was jealous. Jealous. You should revel in that…"**_

…

"_Well, I don't know_

_How this ends;_

_These days that we call life._

_And is there time_

_To make amends?_

_Well, no one knows,_

'_Cause…"_

_"Is that really what he told you, Azula?" _Mother is completely composed; she is without a single fissure upon her form.

"Yes."

_"That isn't true, you know."_

"How is it not?" I press my teeth into my lip. Looking up, I take in the possibility of a green infection forming on one of the many cuts that are etched on my wrists.

_"Your father lied to you."_

"And you called _me _a liar. So, what else is new?"

_"Do you want to know why I left you and your brother?"_

I nod. She sits down next to me. Her flesh is almost nonexistent. She is slightly phantom-like –I can hardly feel her brushing against me.

_"You were right about your brother when you told him that he was to be sacrificed as a means of punishment for your father when he spoke out of turn to Azulon."_

"I never doubted it."

_"After you and I had our discussion, I went and found it out for myself. Ozai smiled and admitted to it, right off the bat."_

"And you wouldn't let Father kill Zuko because he was your favorite."

_"Why must you be so accusatory?"_

"He was weak, and you toyed with him, babied him."

Ursa gives me a steady but stern glare. _"Do you want to hear the rest, or not? Because I can leave you at any time."_

"Are you threatening me? And why should I be worried if you leave? You always leave."

She shakes her head sorrowfully, _"Fine…"_

Swirls of endless color streams dance right before my eyes. The rainbow literally performs its spilling motion for me to see. This is the beauty of euphoria. It is no longer this drunken drug. It provides relief, comfort, zest to me. I have become attuned to its effects –no longer can they bring me to my knees.

…

"_I live on a page_

_That I can't read._

_I live in a cage_

_Of confusion._

_I live on a page_

_That can't be turned._

_I live in a rage,_

_Everlasting."_

I drop the ink pen and let the ink spill and spread on the parchment paper. It is like a fist being pulled apart, fingers spreading wide. Tired with wrists cramped and swollen, I close the book and take a moment to rest. The blackness of night is upon me, for the air in the prison is chilled. I shiver, and give it my all to lull myself to sleep. Hours seem to tick past me; at moments, I can feel myself floating right on the thin edge of wakefulness and slumber, but disturbances keep me from tipping. I rise and pace my square cell. The rectangles of the floorboards are like a map, each corner a destination on a lengthy trek.

For days, I repeat this practice. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I am a walking insomniac, begging for just a measly hour of sleep, slurring my requests like a drunken pig.

Please…

Just this… once…

Let me…

Sleep…

…

"_I have become_

_I have become…_

_Delirious,_

'_Cause…"_

"Mother, I need to speak with you."

_"…"_

"Answer me, Mother!" I shout, clenching my fists, drool slipping from the corner of my mouth. "Don't ignore me!"

_"…"_

"Don't ignore me! Please! Mother, I need you!

"Help me!"

_"…"_

"Mother, why won't you answer?"

_"…" _There. I can pinpoint her tone buzzing, but her structure is nothing but air.

I can't see her here.

"Mother, just where are you? I can't see you!"

_"…"_

Nothing. The swiftness of the roaring wind is my only reply.

And I ask myself: what is euphoria, then?

Nothing but happiness in the form of forgetting. I have forgotten her voice, forgotten her figure. Her face.

Her love…

…Or, maybe it was never there…?

…

"_I live on a page;_

_I live in a cage;_

_I live in a rage._

_I live on a page;_

_I live in a cage;_

_I live in a rage…"_

I open the book again. Ursa's influence resides somewhere in the margins. I skim my work, short as it is, until I reach the very last word.

And I fold my arms across my breasts and wait for her.

Perhaps her inspiration will hit me again someday…

"_Everlasting…"_


End file.
